


Leave the lies ill-concealed and the wounds never healed and the games not worth winning.

by Kaesteranya



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-04
Updated: 2011-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 09:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesteranya/pseuds/Kaesteranya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of it, Ramza and Delita meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave the lies ill-concealed and the wounds never healed and the games not worth winning.

**Author's Note:**

> 31 Days theme date: March 2, 2007.  
> Spoilers for what happens near and during the end of the game.

On the day Queen Ovelia was buried, Delita Heiral — her beloved King — went without escort to pray at a small church on the outskirts of Zeltennia. The foul weather made for a near empty building, with no one else around but he and a few particularly fervent believers scattered among the pews. Delita selected a seat near the back of the church, and focused on the gentle light of the candles. Meditating made it easier to forget the sight of Ovelia sleeping among her favorite flowers. She had been beautiful to the end, he realized, even as she had coughed out her own heart’s blood and looked, with sorrow, from the sword lodged in her chest to the man who wielded it. The man who had loved her.

 

Delita bowed his head. The hours wore on and the other worshippers in the chapel drifted off, one by one, until he alone remained. It was close to midnight by the time the church doors opened again, to admit a group of world-weary travelers inside.

 

“Brother… brother, look!”

 

“I know, Alma. All of you, leave. Take my sister with you.”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“I am, Agrias. If I have not returned within an hour, make for Bervenia.”

 

Silence; a moment after, the five others in the room complied, tugging the girl in their midst away by the arm. The sixth remained where he was, watching his companions leave. The sound of the chapel doors closing echoed throughout the building.

 

“Hello, Delita. I did not think we’d meet again like this.”

 

“Odd circumstances mar both our lives, Ramza.”

 

The blond only bowed his head and smiled. He looked older and harsher, a far cry from the fiery, idealistic bastard child that had spent his childhood years chasing after his father’s legacy. Delita did not wonder what had changed. He knew that if there was anything or anyone to blame, it had to have been him.

 

“You are alone. Where are your guards?”

 

“I cannot pray for my wife’s soul in peace if I am constantly surrounded by rabble.”

 

“Ah, of course. You were the one who killed her, after all.”

 

“It was suicide.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Ramza walked down the aisle, and knelt before the altar. The tip of his sword kissed the velvet carpet at his feet. “You can still repent, Delita,” he said in a low voice, without turning around. “It is never too late to go back.”

 

“I do not need the pity of a heretic.”

 

Delita stood up and left. Ramza never moved to speak out or stop him. In the later months, whenever sleep was too hard to come by, the King returned to that obscure little chapel, always without escort. Ramza Beoulve, however, was never seen there again.


End file.
